Thy father's son
by Akin
Summary: Boromir may find out just who exactly are his father and brother, men he considered a family and that love and help may be offered in many ways. *FINISHED* -prequel to Prelude to Innocence-
1. chapter 1

Thy father's son 

**Thy father's son**

_ Author's note: This is an untold story from Minas Tirith. Boromir is around 20 years, Faramir app. 15-16. Boromir's thoughts are between **_.

Boromir moved quickly to the left, dust awoken by his fast moving feet swirled. Cold, heavy blade stabbed into the space where only moments ago was his head. 

As he eyed his opponent, Boromir felt his frustration building in the back of his mind. He pushed it down resolutely and continued in patient searching for a weakness which could help him to decide the duel. Boromir was aware that he could not allow himself the luxury of being inattentive, or side-tracked by his feelings. Particularly in a fight with more experienced swordsman like this. 

As a confirmation to his thoughts came a skilful, quick blow at his midsection. 

Boromir reflexively twisted to his right and within the movement repelled the attack. Through the ringing of the sharp blades meeting, he heard someone call out his name. 

Boromir let his sword-hand sink down slightly and carefully took a step backwards. He bowed and traditionally thanked his opponent for the duel with his sword. Beregond greeted him back, 

"Getting better day by day."

Boromir smiled at the compliment. A praise from his former teacher and the first-line knight was one of the highest. He was no longer Beregond's pupil and he overmastered his teacher in many ways, but Beregond's opinion was still important to him. 

Boromir hid his proud smile and turned to his younger brother, who stood patiently a few paces away. Faramir was several years younger, just of the right age to join one of the companies near Minas Tirith and often observed Boromir by training. Despite their differences, like in body so in mind, their kinship was apparent and Boromir was secretly proud of it. 

Faramir bowed slightly to both of them,  
"I am sorry I interrupted your drills, gentlemen."

Beregond grinned and waved the apology, "Do not worry, young one. I would have to leave soon anyway." He clasped Boromir's offered hand tightly and left towards the gate of the Citadel. 

Faramir's head turned after the leaving Beregond, but then quickly returned back to his brother.   
His hands flew from behind his back, holding a paper. 

Boromir, studying the silvery blade of his sword critically, gave the paper a side-glance. He did not have to pay much attention to it for he recognised it immediately. He sighed inwardly.  
He knew he should have been expecting that Faramir would sooner or later come to him with it. It was only logical that it happened this year since Faramir was finally old enough.

"I have found this in the Sixth ring when I was on a visit by Kiriel. They yearly swordsmen tournament begins in a few days!"

Boromir smiled grimly. He was the last year's winner what made him this year's challenger, a role he relished immensely. He knew everything necessary to take part in the tournament again and maybe successfully defend his victory.   
"It seems like you want to participate as well. I am sorry to be the one to tell you, Faramir, but the last day for sign ups was the day before yesterday. I do not think you can be accepted anymore."

Faramir's voice jumped a little with impatience as he exclaimed, "I know. I went to Malich immediately. I hoped that as the man responsible for sing ups he would be able to help me. I had to be a little persuasive, "he smirked confidently, "but I convinced him to count me in."

Boromir raised a questioning eyebrow.   
He had handled with Malich several times before and found him unnerving. There was no way to force him do anything he himself did not want to.   
Boromir was really curious what exactly his brother meant under _'a little persuasion'_.  
Faramir ignored the implied question though and carried on excited,   
"I remember the last year's final when you fought with Beregond. It was incredible, but I did not doubt your victory, not for a single moment."

Boromir sat down on a near bench, effectively hiding his smiling face behind his long hair, as he did so. He cleared his voice from amusement so he could not provoke Faramir and asked,   
"Are you sure you want to participate?"  
Faramir straightened and squared his shoulders, "I have already said so. Do not challenge my words!"

Although his voice was not loud, several soldiers passing by looked at them disturbed. 

Boromir shrugged and with fluent moves started to polish the blade of his heavy sword.  
It was indeed pointless effort trying to persuade Faramir, or make him waver in his decision, if he set his mind on something.  
"Very well then. But there can be only one winner and I will have no mercy."  
"I do not ask for it."

Faramir's reply was light, but Boromir knew that he meant it seriously. For one of such a young age, Faramir was an outstanding swordsman and always stood to his word. 

"Prepare thoroughly then. You have less than two days for it."  
"I need no preparation. I am so full of strength and eagerness that I could fight even right now."  
Boromir smiled again. Sometimes he wondered, whether in Faramir's veins was not flowing liquid silver. 

* * *

Boromir looked out of the window of his chamber to the gate of the Seventh ring. 

Unlike many mornings, it had been opened, bathing in the rays of the awaking sun. People were streaming through it in and soldiers by the huge pillars of the gate controlled them.  


Although Boromir was convinced about the loyalty of the people to Minas Tirith, he also knew that there were many who craved steward's death.  


For a short moment he contemplated about the difficulty of the guard's task - to keep the steward safe. 

There were many people coming and in uncertain times no one could be trusted. Boromir scared the thought away. 

*Ridiculous. There is no other city with equally strong guards.* 

With a certain feeling of childish pride he stuck out his chest,  
"Soldiers of Minas Tirith are the strongest. Yet even the best of you will not be good enough to defeat me!"

Boromir smiled to himself. The idea of being the best from the best was very appealing. He leaned out of the window and drew a deep breath. He could clearly feel it- in the air was a fragrance of feverish expectation mixed with the presage of the victory. 

There could be only one winner and Boromir did not doubt who would be it. 

* * *


	2. chapter 2

Thy father's son 

**Thy father's son**

Boromir came to the drill fields. Although he had watched every year how they changed from the usual training ground to the scene of numerous impressive duels, it always mesmerised him.  
Some of the people he knew were convinced that the yearly tournament was nothing else, but a way for soldiers to strengthen their self-conscience and position. However, in a wonderful city which despite its beauty was still a fort, it did not matter much. 

Boromir looked at the soldiers gathering around the fields.   
He knew most of them from his former participation at the tournament. He glanced with interest at some who bore a sign of Dol Amroth on their chests. Soldiers from this outpost came to the city only rarely and this was the first time they were fighting on the tournament as well. Most of them were young men of the same age like himself. 

A heavy glowed hand landed on his shoulder.   
"Good day, Beregond. Seems like you are ready to fight, and to lose again," he said while turning to greet his friend  
"Oh no, my lord. Nothing like that will happen."   
"I do not see here your son. Is he not going to participate?"  
"No, he will not. Beregond is a few months younger than Faramir and so not old enough to take part."

Boromir shrugged with shoulders and returned his attention back to the group he had been observing. He pointed in its direction, "Do you know them?"

Beregond looked their way for a moment, studying their faces,   
"Only a little. Most of them are from Dol Amroth and several neighbouring villages. You do not have to worry about them. They are skilled and do not lack experience, but the only one who could be dangerous is that man polishing his sword."

Boromir curiously inspected the man Beregond had pointed out to him, "Who is he?"  
"Lamariel."  
"That is Lamariel of Lossarnach? The best swordsman from Dol Amroth to Belfalas?" Boromir blinked in surprise. Beregond nodded. 

The man was with his company in Minas Tirith only once or twice. His reputation was far ahead. 

Boromir quietly observed him. Lamariel was tall and thin and it seemed almost unbelievable that in his brown shoulders was enough strength to raise a sword and move it. 

"Do not underestimate him, Boromir. He has one of the wildest front-attack I have seen. "  
"I will not, but tell me. Why do you reveal this to me?"

Beregond looked at their opponents grimly, "in case that I should not make it to the final duel. Then I wish for the winner to be from Minas Tirith." 

Boromir smirked. Beregond's love for the White city was an unshakeable fact the soldier did not try to hide. 

*May all our warriors hold equal love and loyalty towards Gondor and Minas Tirith.*

"You do not have to worry about Lamariel being in your way, brother. At least not for the start. He is in Beregond's group."  
Boromir spun to face his frowning, observant brother, who explained, "I was by Malich. The system is the same as the last year. There are four groups and the winners of each meet in the semi-final. Then two winners meet in the final. I am in the fourth group. Boromir is in the second and you, Beregond, are in the third."

Boromir pondered about his position in the tournament. It seemed it was a very good one. Indeed the chance, he could win was growing bigger. 

Faramir smiled at them, "I have to go now. I have my first duel in a moment," he winked to Beregond, "we will meet in the semi-final then." 

Beregond prodded into Boromir, "Your father, the Lord Steward is here. I shall go then to my duel as well."

Boromir glanced to a lodge above the heads of the audience built specially for this occasion. 

The Steward and the council were sitting down, but the chair at Steward's left side remained empty. 

*Mother, I wish you were here.*

* * * 

Boromir looked at the unconscious opponent at his feet - a good swordsman, but lacked strength and experience. Not a match for him, not for a single moment. Everything ran according to his expectations and he without any significant effort reached the final round. 

Boromir turned to the lodge to the Steward and the council. Father nodded a little, showing the appreciation of his son's victory. 

A few watchers from audience took the unconscious man away to make a space for the upcoming couple. Boromir glanced at the soldiers, who were supposed to fight in the next duel. It was Faramir and Lamariel. 

He turned to the closest man in the audience and queried, "Lamariel beat Beregond?"

"Yes, sir. Beregond was defeated in a three strike victory. " The dutiful answer did not satisfy Boromir, but he looked upon the fighters again, a sparkle of interest ignited in him. Indeed an attractive round that was worth of staying and watching. If not for anything else, then because the winner would be his challenger in the final. 

Boromir glanced at his brother. Faramir did not appear nervous. 

*He does not have a reason to be. From what I have seen, he has been fighting excellently. With charm, yet with deadly effectiveness.* 

Boromir looked up to the Steward to see that his father's eyes were firmly set on his younger son, but betrayed no emotions even when the fight began.

Lamariel started against Faramir with a fierce attack aimed at the heart, trying to abate the duel as soon as it started.   
The crowd responded to this action with loud cheer.   
Faramir stopped the attack, not so gracefully as usual, but firmly. From the experienced soldiers gathered in the first row came several grunts of respect and satisfied approval. Small wide-eyed boys from the Fifth ring cheered loudly. 

*Seems like you have already some admirers among the audience, Faramir.*

Boromir looked around to observe that even the older people seemed to have forgotten their age and were shouting words of encouragement and their advice. 

*And not only among the young.*

Faramir, however did not seem to be aware of his this. He stood still with a raised sword, his face was a picture of sheer concentration. 

After the blocked attack Lamariel stepped away to create a little space between him and Faramir.

He looked at the smaller man, or rather boy, with a twinkle of new respect in the lively brown eyes.  
Then he attacked again with equal force - almost wildly. Yet it seemed to Boromir that this attack was more cautious. 

*It would not be shame to lose against a fighter like Lamariel.*

Faramir seemed to be powerless against the fierce attacks that came his way and it was apparent that he was only able to defend himself, not having a chance to go into a counter attack at all. 

__

*It would not be shame, but it seems to me that you have but victory in your mind, brother. How you want to win when you do not attack. You do not even attempt to. * 

Suddenly as if a torch lit the dark corner of his mind, Boromir understood. 

*Not even attempting to! You have a brilliant mind, Faramir! "Bend under their attacks and when they tire, you will stand straight and strike them down." The strategy Beregond has taught you is good, but are you able to fulfil it?*

One attack after another came crashing down on his brother, who was obviously growing more tired repelling them.

Lamariel's actions, on the other hand, became more daring as he restored his old-assurance. 

*You should not have allowed that!*

Boromir watched with grave heart as his brother's defence were showing their first flaws - slowly opening him up to front -attacks. 

_*Lamariel does not even try to change his style, still using only the front - attack. He sees his chance in it. *_

And Lamariel used his vantage well. Faramir could not take a new breath and his subtle style changed into pure will to avoid being hit. 

Suddenly Faramir, reflecting another blow, gave under the force of it. Both duellists were brought out of their balance. But even in the fall backwards, Faramir was somehow able to stab blindly into the air. The thrust did not have any real force and yet the tip of the sword touched, almost brushed the open space on Lamariel's chest- right in spot where the heart was. 

Faramir fell down with a loud thud with his opponent on the top of him. Lamariel immediately rolled away. 

There was no spot of injury on his chest, yet everyone saw how Faramir's sword touched him. Denethor's son was the winner. 

* * *


	3. chapter 3

Thy father's son 

**Thy father's son**

* * * 

Faramir fell down with a loud thud with his opponent on the top of him. Lamariel immediately rolled away. There was no spot of injury on his chest, yet everyone saw how Faramir's sword touched him. Denethor's son was the winner. 

_*He was so sure with his victory that he forgot about the defence. I only wonder whether it was your intention. Were you lurking him the whole time to stab him in an unguarded moment, or was it rather a mere luck?* _

Faramir scrambled to his feet and without even bowing to the watching Steward, he disappeared in the audience. Boromir stretched his neck and through the midst of people caught a glimpse of his brother trying to break through the crowd. He looked at him doubtfully. Although he could not detect anything wrong, he felt something was at ill with Faramir. 

_*Long time ago I have learnt to trust my heart more than my eyes in matters concerning you, Faramir.* _

Boromir regarded the soldiers around him cheering and talking about the abated duel. None of them had even noticed the winner leaving.   
Boromir stepped away from the crowd and carefully, not to bring their attention to him, went after his brother. Tall as he was he could easily see Faramir blindly pushing through the last rows of the crowd. Boromir realised immediately that Faramir was not aware of the fierce eyes aimed at his back pursuing him. 

_*Your attention wavers, brother mine. I wonder what holds it.* _

Faramir stumbled slightly and faltered into the first building that came into his view- old empty stables. Once inside, its large, unused wooden door closed with a loud thud.   
Boromir came to it and put a hand on the sun-warmed wood thinking that he should probably give Faramir some time on his own to compose. 

He turned away, but guarded the entrance with his back. If there was anyone to speak with Faramir about what was going on, it would him and no one else. 

After a short moment of observing the crowd on the yard, he turned back to the gate of the stable. Deciding that Faramir had had enough time, Boromir slipped in quickly. Heavy summer - air inside nearly choked him. Although the stables were not used anymore the smell of horses was still inscribed in every small piece of its equipment.   
Boromir closed the stable door silently and looked around.   
Faramir stood in the far corner with his back to the gate. Boromir smirked. Knowing that he could not say no to the opportunity that was offering itself, he softly crept upon the unaware Faramir and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. 

Faramir jerked, and while turning around, his hand immediately reached for the sword. He relaxed when he spotted the intruder.   
Boromir felt as Faramir's sudden and unexpected relief stroked his soul: it was not easy for anyone to win his brother's trust. Although Faramir was open and loved by many, there were only a few to whom he returned the affection. His obvious relief was to Boromir like the greatest of praises.   
"You should be more careful. It could be a foe trying for your life the next time," Boromir was jesting, but he saw that his words cut deep. He continued more seriously," Come, let me aid your shoulder."  
Faramir looked at him with wide-opened eyes. 

_*Oh, Faramir! So wise and yet so naive. Were you really thinking you can hide anything from me? Especially something so significant like an injury? Only a short while of reflecting was enough for me to uncover your secret."_

Boromir helped Faramir to strip off his tunic and looked at his shoulder. It was bound, rather clumsily, in a light bandage, which was already seeping through with blood. Boromir smirked at the rough job of Faramir's own bandaging, but did not comment it. He knew that Faramir would, just like other soldiers, learn to bandage better later - by experience. 

He removed the fabrics and inspected the wound. It was a small, but rather deep one. The edges were already healed together, signalising it was an older injury. It had to have been a careless move that ripped it open. Although blood was oozing out freely, it was not dangerous. Surely not comfortable either. 

Trying to touch it as lightly as possible, Boromir stated calmly to catch Faramir's attention, "You fought really well."

After he had received no answer, he glanced with one eye at his brother's face. Faramir was looking straight forward with narrowed eyes. Obviously Boromir was not to receive an answer, so he returned to his task. 

He tried to be as gentle as possible, but Faramir hissed several times in pain nevertheless. Then he responded to Boromir's lame attempt of conversation dryly,   
"It was good enough to reach the next round."  
"I see." 

_*It was probably much better than that. Why are you doing this to yourself, Faramir? Is it your shoulder, or pride that had been wounded? This was unjust from me! I know what are you striving for, but you shall never gain it for our father's heart is blind!* _

He finished the bandaging and patted brother's shoulder, "Now is our time. I'll be awaiting you at the yard."

Boromir slipped out of the stables and went straight to the crowd again. Their fight was to start soon and he did not want to raise any suspicion, although no one had seemed to notice that both brothers disappeared. The crowd was blood-thirsty waiting for the final. 

_*Bloodthirsty? There was never drawn a single drop of blood on the tournament. No killing. We are soldiers protecting the same land. We do not kill each other only for fame. Although to some corrupted hearts, it might seem as a reason good enough.* _

He drew out his sword and regarded its silvery blade. Then he stepped into the almost perfect circle the surrounding audience had created. Everyone wanted to get to the duel as close as possible, but not too close to the sharp blades. 

Boromir looked sprightly at the other end of the field, where Faramir appeared. 

_*I had expected to stand here to fight in the last round. If you are to be my opponent, so be it. I shall not be the one to show mercy, brother mine. And you neither.* _

They both turned to the Steward and greeted him with a bow.  
A light, warm breeze tousled Boromir's hair.   
The air seemed nearly shimmering, heated by the hot sun. As they stepped closer to each other, Beregond stepped to them,  
"May this fight be fair: to your honour and to the honour of your house. You can win by hitting your opponent three times, or by one-strike-victory at vital parts like head or heart. Strength and honour to you!"  
Beregond stepped aside and together with him left their awareness of the cheering crowd too. There was nothing what could betray their concentration in a crucial moment: only two brothers staring at each other.   


* * * 


	4. chapter 4

Thy father's son 

**Thy father's son**

* * * 

Shadowfax' mane tickled him in the face as it waved and jumped in the air. The beast's large hoofs drummed at the dry soil hard as rock rhythmically.  
The Tower of Ecthelion glimmered like gold sunrays spilled on moving water. Seven defending rings were standing high and proud. 

Although the guards were at attention, it seemed to him that something was drawing their attention elsewhere.

Although it was longer ago, since he had last visited the White City, Mithrandir noted with a certain pleasure that her inhabitants still remembered him. The large Eastern gate opened easily and the guards let him pass without questions. 

It took him only several moments more to reach through all ring-gates the very heart of Minas Tirith. 

Mithrandir slipped from Shadowfax and looked around stunned. The usually crowded streets were nearly empty and he could only occasionally make out a glimpse of man or a woman hurrying - all of them in the same direction. Mithrandir patted the horse's nape and whispered to himself, "this seems rather strange. Perchance there is something going on we should know about."

Suddenly he realised there was an unusual cheering coming from the square under the Tower. When he listened to the shouting and screaming for a moment, it hit him: Of course the yearly tournament! How could he forget about it?

* * *

The yard around the drill field was filled with people from all City's rings. 

Even with his tall figure, Mithrandir could not see the heart of the happening through the forest of raised arms. Slowly, pushing the people aside, he began to make his way through the crowd. Finally he got a look at two people closed in the circle. 

Although he had not been in Minas Tirith for several years, he recognised both fighting men immediately as Denethor's sons' Boromir and Faramir. 

They were standing against each other, circling slowly, their swords drawn at attention. 

Boromir had a white opened sleeveless shirt. His strong muscles glistened with sweat in the merciless sun. 

Faramir was despite the heath fully clothed. Brothers standing against each other reminded Mithrandir of a Hobbit standing against a Naz-gul; Faramir seemed in comparison to his older brother like a mere boy. 

Boromir attacked, clearly revealing that the elder Denethor's son had already spent a longer time among the brave warriors of Minas Tirith; his moves were fluid and quick, and surprising. Mithrandir could not miss the startle in Faramir's eyes as he backed down, trying to block out the strong assaults. Yet the boy managed to defend himself. 

Mithrandir eyed the both opponents curiously, assessing their weaknesses and strengths. 

Boromir was bigger, more experienced, in better condition, older, and stronger.   
Faramir, in comparison to him, was already panting heavily, slightly leaning to side - probably a result of a painful blow from before. His still boyish features clearly displayed his weariness and frustration. 

Mithrandir frowned, the blows the brothers exchanged were strong, yet it seemed to him that Boromir was careful, not wanting to hurt his brother. 

* * *

Faramir raised his sword to a dangerous strike at Boromir's midsection, who reacted immediately. Their blades met in a loud clash and sprang apart. 

Faramir felt his hands tremor a moment from the heavy encounter. He knew there was not way to pierce Boromir's perfect defence with simple blows like the last one. Boromir was Beregond's pupil as well and Boromir's knowledge exceeded his own much more. Looking at the bigger man, Faramir winced mentally. No matter from which side he looked at it, the outcome of his thoughts was always the same - there was no way how he could beat his brother today. Faramir smirked. 

__

*I won't give up. I have never lacked in imagination - not in fighting, nor in thinking. If I cannot win by strength, I must find another way.*

Brother's next blows made him doubt whether he would have enough time for thinking before Boromir would raise his sword in victory.  


Boromir charged at him again. The attack caught Faramir unprepared and he wavered, but somehow managed to stay on his feet without being hit. He watched Boromir's moves of sword carefully. 

__

*I wonder if I preferred a heavy sword, like you, instead of a light ranger's sword, if it made a difference.* 

Except he did not get the time to think the idea to its end as Boromir's following aggressive strikes nearly knocked the sword from his hands. 

Taking a few quick steps back, Faramir felt as his wrist holding the hilt was about to fall apart. 

If Boromir's blows were strong before, they were crushing now. Each ringing contact of the blades felt as if his arm- from the shoulder to the wrist was shattering to pieces, bringing excruciating pain. He could not even recede so fast as the attacks came. Boromir had never been so aggressive before.  


Faramir stumbled backwards blindly, when he felt his own feet betray him as he tripled under a particularly strong blow. His arms flew up in a fruitless effort to regain the lost balance and he fell.

Then suddenly he had been sprawled on the ground, watching Boromir's flushed face from behind tip of sword under his nose. The fight was over. He was defeated in one-strike victory!

Boromir looked down at him nearly apologetically and then raised his sword high above his head. 

The crowd around was cheering and clasping- wildly honouring the winner. Faramir looked at the dust he sat in. Suddenly he did not feel like standing up at all. His nearly numb fingers let go of the hilt and the sword fell into the dust, swirling it.

A large hand wrapped around the hilt. Faramir looked up to see Boromir standing over him smiling - in one hand he held Faramir's sword and with the other he offered his younger brother help to stand up. Faramir grabbed it thankfully. 

He wished to win the tournament, but his opponent was stronger and he loved and honoured Boromir too greatly to hurt him out of childish anger, or bitterness. A larger palm clasped his and with unexpected force brought Faramir to his feet easily. 

Boromir's hair tickled him in the face when he leaned to him and whispered, "Well fought, brother mine." 

Beregond stepped to Boromir and put a hand on the large shoulder. He smiled at Faramir as well. And although he was not convinced whether he should believe his own senses, Faramir thought he saw in Beregond's eyes shine a new-born respect for the youngest son of the House of Denethor. 

With mixed feelings of pleasure, weariness and defeat Faramir watched as the Lord Steward stood up from his place and stepped closer to his sons. 

Although he had lost, he had gained something. 

* * * 

Boromir bowed to the Lord and became once again aware of the strange feeling that penetrated him in the presence of his father. 

Denethor put hands on Boromir's shoulders and squeezed them, "This is the winner. Proud representative of the House of Denethor."

Boromir bowed with gracefulness of a born warrior, "I thank you, my Lord."

Father embraced his son ritually, but hissed to him, "I want to speak to you later."

* * * 

Boromir closed the door of his room relieved to escape the sun and many congratulations he had received. 

He quickly washed in a basin as best as he could and was thankful to get rid of the dust and sweat that clung to his face. 

Although he wanted to take a long bath, he did not want to make his father wait for too long. He dressed in clean clothes as fast as he could and hurried to his father's office. 

He nodded to several men who greeted him along the way and hoped that his faked tranquillity hid his nervousness.   
He knocked at the office door loudly and waited for approval to enter. All the while Boromir tried to restrain the strange feeling in his stomach, but despite his efforts, it intensified. It was strange to believe that his father could have only reprimands for him. 

*Is this how Faramir feels every time he is waiting here?* 

He tried hardly to deny the thought when a steel cold commanding voice called him to enter. 

* * * 

Denethor's was symmetrical and although everywhere books lay opened and drying scrolls unrolled, it looked in order. 

"How may I serve, father?"

Denethor's blue examining eyes bore into him. 

*Oh, Faramir. You have more of our father than you realise. No living creature with soul and heart could withstand that stare looking at the naked core.* 

Boromir moved his eyes from his father to the wall behind the Steward. He could not stand the stare, but he could not flinch away. He fought the urge to shift from one foot to another, or to fold his arms behind his back. 

"I was watching your duel with Faramir."  
The Steward spoke quietly with his gaze fixed on his son, "The whole course of the tournament you was representing the warrior in you, but now I have to ask myself, is there one? "

Steward's calm voice shifted almost icy, his face was pale with rage and suddenly he lost control, screaming, "Is there one?"

Boromir felt humiliation and anger heating up his face. He had done what everyone had been expecting from him, he won! He deserved more than reprimands!

"Of course there is."

"Then why did you not show it? You had pity with Faramir! I do not ask for the reason, but do you believe that Faramir would have spared you too?!"

Boromir paused and let the question pass through his mind. Although his brother was very compassionate, he always had been prepared to take hard steps, if necessary. "In a battle, no."

Denethor's eyes glistened at the answer seemingly satisfied and a little amused by it. He continued in less loud, but equally stern voice, "It is always a battle. This tournament, the next day, our lives. It is always a battle."

Boromir bit into his lower lips hard.   
He was relieved, but no less angry, when father finally gestured for him to leave. 

* * * 


	5. chapter 5

Thy father's son 

**Thy father's son**

* * * 

Boromir stopped in his agitated, mindless walking in the middle of an empty corridor. When he realised where his pacing had brought him, he smiled to himself, not at all that surprised. 

He passed the remaining space to his brother's chamber door and knocked. 

No one answered, but Boromir was certain that his brother was in. He knocked again, louder this time. Still there was no response. 

He shifted and looked at both ends of the hall. No one was coming so he called out,  
"Faramir, I am coming in." Some worries he felt crept into his voice. Boromir slipped into his brother's room. 

He spotted Faramir still, dressed in his sparring clothes, lying on his bed with closed eyes. 

For a while Boromir was not sure whether his brother was not sleeping, but then Faramir opened eyes and slowly turned his head to him. 

Although Faramir was never one to be touched by the sun easily, his pale face seemed to Boromir almost greyish. His dark tunic was wet from sweat and...blood. 

Boromir sat down on the bed, which gave in under his weight slightly, 

"Are you well? Shall I tell father you will not come for the dinner?"

Faramir's stormy grey eyes opened wider and he choked out, "No, I am well."

Boromir shrugged. He strongly doubted the truthfulness of Faramir's words, but understood his reluctance to share his problems with their father. 

Boromir gently took his brother by shoulders and helped him to sit.   
Faramir protested weakly, "I am not that unwell, Boromir."

"Sure you are not. But that does not mean I cannot help you."

Faramir's half smile quickly changed into a wince when Boromir tried to pull his brother's tunic off. 

He probed the dressing on Faramir's arm gingerly. The thin bandage was soaking through with blood. He unwrapped it. The previously small wound smiled at him in a large crooked smile, spitting more and more blood. 

"It is bleeding strongly. Do you have some herbs to put on it in here?"   
Boromir hoped that Faramir, like nearly all men and especially soldiers, kept some healing herbs. They could not allow themselves being late for the dinner. Especially when they had a guest to dine with them. They were running short of time. 

Boromir was relieved when Faramir nodded and with his good arm pointed out the direction where to look. 

He jumped from the bed and to his brother's fairly big private library and grasped a wooden carved box laying there. 

When he opened the generously ornamented cap the air filled with soft fresh odour. He took some out of the herbs he knew he had sometimes used on himself and he gently applied them to the wound, careful not to aggravate it. 

Faramir moaned, "You have the gentleness of a first-line knight. Remind me not to let you closer should something serious happen to me."

At his statement Boromir chuckled. 

He bandaged the wound with a clean bandage, helped Faramir to wash a little and dress into a dark silky shirt. Faramir tried a little shakily to stand up. 

"Are you going to make it alone?"  
As a sharp reply to Boromir's concerned question, Faramir brushed his brother's steadying hand away. 

"Let's go, " he said, "the dinner will start soon and I do not want to be late."

* * * 

Boromir, sitting opposite to Mithrandir, was eating eagerly. He did not realise how hungry he was until the food was served. Then his natural appetite got to word.  


Faramir at his side sat usually silently, staring at the untouched food on his plate, but Boromir was not so sure whether it was food what Faramir saw in his mind eye. 

He quickly glanced at father and then kicked his brother under the table. 

Faramir blinked and turned to him, then grabbed with his good left hand the fork and touched the food gingerly.   
A few moments later, it was clear that whatever younger boy's intention with the food was, it was not eating. 

Denethor looked at his younger son without trying to hide his resentment. 

Faramir caught the cold stare, he looked into his plate, "Please, father, allow me to go away from the table." 

Steward nodded coldly and released him with a lazy gesture. 

Boromir looked at the steward. He did not have a good feeling about this. It seemed like this would have a sequel in private and he feared it would be one of the encounters when too much mercury of youth meets with cold logic of old. Mithrandir was wisely pretending that nothing happened. 

Faramir stood up heavily. His pale face was in contrast with the dark tunic he wore. The dim light of candles was making him look ghostly.   
He bowed and not bothering to say anything more to Mithrandir, or Boromir he slowly dragged towards the opened large oak door. 

Boromir was looking after the slender figure of his slowly walking brother suspiciously. 

Suddenly Faramir stopped, leaned a little forward and collapsed. 

Boromir jumped up from the table, but first to reach Faramir's side was Mithrandir. 

The wizard knelt down and touched Faramir's arm. He pulled his hand away coloured with blood. Denethor crouched down by his son and with one move ripped the thin silky shirt open. 

Their eyes fell on a bandage on right shoulder, which was soaking through with blood. 

Mithrandir frowned and surprisingly easy lifted the limp body, "We should put him on a bed."   
Boromir sprang up from his knees to lead them, "This way." 

He brought them to the closest chamber with bed. 

The wizard put Faramir down with unexpected gentleness and inspected the wound, "It is bleeding too much. I do not think that only herbs are enough for this," then probing the wound, he added gravely, "bring me boiling water and the strongest wine in the House. And more herbs."   
The Steward stood up from the bed, "My chamber is the closest and I keep needed herbs. I will bring everything you need."

Boromir looked from Denethor to Mithrandir and felt that something passed between the two men. 

When father went out, he sat down on the bed to his brother, opposite to Mithrandir, "What do you want to do?"

Faramir moaned softly, his eyes opened briefly, then fluttered close again. Mithrandir reached out and probed the boy's brow, 

"I will stitch up the wound."

Boromir winced. He did not remember the time when he was stitched up very clearly. But it was a memory steady enough to make him sure that it was something he did not want to repeat. 

"You are a wizard. Cannot you do anything?"

Mithrandir passed the rudeness of the question and answered quite calmly, "You are right. I am a wizard, not a healer. I do as much as I can. Just like you did. You bandaged the wound well."

Boromir stood up abruptly and backed away. What sorcery was this?  
Mithrandir smiled at his distress. 

"There's no way how could Faramir be able to bandage the wound alone so well. And you are his brother, he obviously trusts you. So he naturally went to you. Although this mutual secret you kept could have been very treacherous one."

After this half spoken reprimand Boromir's eyes fell to brother's ghostly face, whose eyelids shivered and opened.

The door opened and Denethor entered, holding a sweet scenting pack of dried herbs, bowl with dark red wine and another steaming one with hot water. He put it down on the table by the headstand and looked at Faramir, 

"I think, I shall call the healers."

Mithrandir made a fast rejecting gesture, "No. That is not necessary. They cannot do more than I will. But you can let the servants prepare a room in a more silent part. Faramir will need to rest."

Steward moved reluctantly to the door, but then left the chamber. Boromir looked after him stunned. It was clear there was running some business between father and the wizard. Something he was curious about to know, but it was obvious that none of them wanted him to. 

Boromir looked at Mithrandir. He remembered the wizard only foggily from the previous visits in Minas Tirith, but somehow he got the feeling that the old man knew exactly what he was doing. That offered a little comfort, although it scared Boromir that he should let Faramir in care of someone he did not really know. No matter how experienced and trustworthy the wizard seemed. 

Mithrandir put the herbs into the water. The fresh odour of them intensified as the water coloured light green. Mithrandir filled a cup with the liquid and handed it to Boromir, "Give him this to drink."

Boromir helped his brother to sit. He did not doubt that Faramir would manage to sit on his own, but he would need his strength later by healing. There was no good in spending it foolishly. He supported brother's back, who leaned against him with relief. Carefully, not to touch the still wide - smirking bleeding wound, Boromir held the cup to brother's pale lips, "Drink."

Faramir took a few small sips, tasting the liquid carefully, then he turned his head away. 

Mithrandir looked at Boromir sternly, daring him to question his orders, "He has to drink it all, otherwise it will not work."

Boromir leaned to Faramir's ear. He smelled the soft odour of younger man's hair, "It is numbing tea. The shoulder has to be stitched up, so you better drink it." 

Faramir growled, but when the cup was pushed against his lips again, he drank obediently. 

After a while Mithrandir took fabric which was brought by Denethor together with the wine and water. He poured some wine over it and pushed it to the wound. 

"What..." Boromir started to protest, when he realised that Faramir did not react to the harsh treatment: the tea took affect. 

"Hold him," ordered Mithrandir and started to work grimly. 

Although Boromir still had a scar from the time when he was stitched up, after one especially bad fight, he did not remember much from the process itself. He watched the wizard work with eyes wide with fascination. From time to time he stole a moment to look at brother's face. Grey eyes under half closed lids moved occasionally, but Faramir showed otherwise no other life except for a little heavy breathing.   
The flow of blood from the wound was slower with each next stitch until it ceased. Mithrandir inspected his work closely, frowning a little. Then he poured a wine around it one last time and bandaged it. 

Boromir watched Faramir in disbelief. Mithrandir answered his private thoughts tiredly. 

"No, he does not feel it now. But he will, tomorrow."

Boromir eased his brother on a big cushion, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. But Faramir did not even stir. 

"It had been a hard day for you, Boromir. Go to bed." 

Boromir looked at the wizard, who seemed like he himself needed a rest. "But what of Faramir?"

"Do not worry. I will take care of him for now. We will move him with your father into his room."

Suddenly the whole day's effort came at back Boromir as crushing weariness, "Good night, sir." 

He looked back at his sleeping brother and satisfied left the chamber. 

He should not have done what he had done- to cover up for Faramir. It was stupid. It was dangerous. But he knew, he would do it again if Faramir asked him to. 

*I really should be more strict with him. He is my greatest weakness. _Mithrandir had noticed it immediately.* _

Although the wizard did not say anything, Boromir was convinced about it.  
He contemplated for a while, disturbed by the sudden realisation. Did the Steward know as well? 

*Of course he knows. He had seen it in my eyes the day Faramir was born.*

He slipped into his darkened chamber. 

If father knew about the affection he held for his brother, then why did he not use it against them? 

For a short moment his mind entered a strange thought that maybe the Steward was afraid to hurt his sons, but he quickly denied it. 

Whether for his sake, or the sake of his brother, Boromir realised that father had never put it upon them. 

*But alas! One day would come the moment when I will be forced to choose between the love for my brother and the obedience to the Steward and Minas Tirith.*

He shivered, although the room was warm. One day. And the day would come!  
He lit a candle on the table to scare away the darkness that suddenly lay so hard upon him. 

Boromir sat down onto his bed and ran fingers through his silky hair. His heart was thumping loudly in his ears. The thought of choosing made him so sick that the possibility seemed nearly unreal. He tried to think about the matter harder, but it kept eluding his grasp, leaving a shade of fear in his heart. 

*It is useless to chase shadow. I will have clearer mind tomorrow.*

He tried to believe they would not ask him to make the unreal choice between two ways of his love, but his heart stayed heavy. 

* * *


	6. chapter 6

Thy father's son 

**Thy father's son**

* * * 

Boromir woke up in the morning with thumping in his head. 

He winced as he opened his eyes into the darkened room. He was sure it must have been already morning, but everything seemed greyish. He stood up heavily hoping, the headache would diminish. Much to his dislike, it aggravated. He looked out of his small window to the Eastern gate. Life in the underneath streets was already bubbling, but in more subtle way than usually.

The skies were of frightening dark. Grey heavy clouds were covering everything what could only remind that behind them could be hidden the life-giving sun. Boromir cursed. 

He hoped it would start to rain soon so the pressure he felt in his ears would disappear. It did not look very promising though. Wild wind was tying its invisible knots around the Tower of Ecthelion, which seemed to shine in the darkness more than usually. 

The trees in the Gardens of Healing in the Sixth ring were whispering agitated.  
Boromir turned back to his greyish room and carefully chose some warm clothes. 

He emerged his room out and went straight to Faramir's chamber to check on his younger brother. Even though it was more quiet part of the House, the halls seemed almost too quiet. He did not meet anyone on his way. 

He entered Faramir's chamber and noted it was even darker than his. Somewhere over the Pelennor fields rumbled a thunder. 

He looked at Faramir. Unlike yesterday, his face had much better colour now: flushed, nearly angry red at cheeks. Too red, too warm. Boromir touched younger brother's brow with palm. Faramir moaned. Very hot. Mithrandir entered the room. 

"He is running a fever," stated Boromir a little in vain. Mithrandir held some herbs in the hands and many white sheets. 

"Yes. I know. I had informed your father. He is at the council now."

Boromir grimaced. At the council? He was not expecting compassion, was he? 

Mithrandir did not seem to be surprised either, "Come help me with your brother," he handed him the sheets and pointed to the basin standing in the corner of the room, "make them wet."

"What do you want to do?"

"We have to lower the fever before he gets cramps." 

Boromir obediently jumped to the basin and started to damp the sheets. When he was finished, he turned back to Mithrandir. 

The wizard touched with the corner of a damp sheet lying boy's flushed cheek. Faramir opened confused eyes glazing with fever. Boromir stepped to him, "Faramir, I will help you to sit now."

He supported brother's back. He felt the heath radiating from his body. Boromir did not remember brother ever being so sick.  
Mithrandir removing Faramir's top, spoke to the boy soothingly, but clearly, 

"Faramir, listen to me now. You have high fever we have to lower it down. It would be very....uncomfortable, but do not fight us. It is for your good." 

After a moment for comprehension, Faramir slowly nodded slightly. 

The wizard spread one of the sheets and started to wrap it around Faramir. 

"We have to be careful otherwise he could get a shock." 

When the cold wet sheet touched the hot dry skin, Faramir flinched and tried to push Boromir's steadying hands away, but was too weak. After a short while of struggling, weakened, he leaned against Boromir's shoulder, moaning nearly in pain against the treatment. 

Boromir wrapped his arms around his brother. As the wetness seeped through his clothes, he pointed out, "The sheets are not even that cold. And though it causes him so much discomfort."

The wizard replied sternly while changing the sheet for new one, "The main point is, it will help."

After several more changes Faramir stopped to protest and only occasionally stirred, or moaned. Mithrandir looked at him with experienced eyes, "I think it is enough. The fever sank."

Boromir unwrapped the sheet and dried Faramir. He noted that brother's breathing was deeper now.

"How is it that he is so sick?"

Mithrandir undid the wet bandage around Faramir's right arm, "It is not from the wound. That looks good. It could be from the blood loss. The body was weakened by it, the hot weather and tiring tournament added to all. It was not able to defend against a treacherous sickness."

Boromir nodded, "So we will not be healing his wound, but curing his body."

"Yes. And it would be of great help to know what we are fighting." 

Although Boromir was used to speak and handle with politicians, Mithrandir's speaking in riddles was slowly awaking his temper, "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"We have to find out who was with Faramir in the last days and is sick as well."

Boromir silenced for a moment, making in his mind a list of places and people his brother was visiting. 

Then he answered at length, "Minas Tirith is a big city, but Faramir moves only in a small circle of people."

Mithrandir nodded, though reading between lines the strange story of Faramir's life. Boromir continued. 

"There is no one sick here in the Citadel. I would have known about it. And there are only a few places and even less people Faramir visits outside."

Mithrandir stole a short moment to probe sleeping Faramir's brow again, "We should handle quick. We have cooled him only moments ago, but I have a feeling the temperature is rising again."

Boromir's heart wrenched, "Then we should start in the sixth ring where Kiriel lives."

They emerged from the room quietly. "Shall I not call anyone to look after Faramir?"

"No, that is not necessary. He should be sleeping for the time we are gone. "

Boromir eyed the door of brother's chamber sceptically, "I am not so sure about that."

Then he looked at a small boy coming their way. He grabbed the boy by the small arm. Little lad shrieked silently. Boromir put a large hand on the boy's hair. 

"Small friend, do me a favour. Guard this door until we return. Let no one in, or out. We shall be back soon."

Surprised tad recovered his senses and bowed to Boromir dutifully, "Yes master Boromir. As you command. I shall let no one in or out until you return."

Boromir ruffled silky hair, then motioned Mithrandir to follow. 

* * *

Along the way in the large streets of the Citadel Boromir spoke to the wizard, "I hope Kiriel would be at home.... he is free in thinking and living."

"Too free for the Steward's liking, aren't I right?"

Boromir frowned. "Aye. That is right."

"What do you think about their friendship?"

"I cannot be jealous of my brother's friends, yet I do not like to see them together."

"So you share your father's view?"

Boromir looked at Mithrandir frowning at the mischievous implication and answered harshly, "No. I have a mind of my own. The fact that father rules our city does not mean he rules our minds as well."

For a while they walked in silence. Dark clouds seemed to hover heavily above the city, just to stretch out a finger and poke into them to release a blissful pour of rain. 

* * *

They reached the citadel - gate quite fast and easily. 

Boromir winked to the guard, "Beregond, you look well..." and although he was not in mood for joking at all, he could not remit himself a small teasing so he playfully added, "for someone of your age."

Beregond frowned menacingly, but gestured for the gate to be opened. 

He grabbed the passing Boromir by elbow, leaned closer and whispered,

"I heard lord Faramir is unwell. How is he?" 

Boromir shivered, a little surprised. They chose to keep silent about Faramir's sickness, so how could have Beregond found out? 

He whispered back soft voice, "Hard to say. The future will tell."

Beregond let go off the arm and nodded. His face betrayed no emotions,"Wherever you go, return fast. There is going to be a big storm soon. I feel it."

"In your old bones?" Despite their grave moods, Beregond smiled. 

The stone streets of the Sixth ring were narrower than in the Citadel, making just enough space for people and carriages. They seemed to be connected in an impenetrable net, but Boromir moved quickly and certainly. 

"We had had forbidden to leave the Citadel without the guards, when we were small, me and Faramir. We always ran away from them, hid here and played till the dinner. The possibilities to hide here are infinite. This ring has not changed much since then."

After a few moments of walking in the twisted streets they stopped before a smaller stone house. 

The cold wind howled in the streets and ruffled wildly their long hair. 

Boromir bounced at the door and entered followed by Mithrandir. The small room swallowed them easily. By a large wooden table under a dusty window sat a thin woman. In the lines of her, not so young face was engraved torment. She wiped her eyes with a wet handkerchief pushing her long disshelved, silvery hair from her face. She looked up to them with red, swollen eyes. She jumped to feet to Boromir. In her choking voice was desperation mingled with a hint of a new hope, 

"Lord Boromir, help! Kiriel is sick. He burns in fever and will not stop, nothing helps. Help me, sir!"

She pointed to the far corner of the room lit by a few candles. There on a bed laid a slim boy tangled in the sheets of a bed. His angry - red, dry cheeks were indicating on still rising fever. Mithrandir looked closer. 

It was a young lad of Faramir's age. He was not so unsimilar to him, but the lacked the strange air that surrounded the steward's son. 

Mithrandir shook slightly his grey head, "What else ails your son except the fever?"

Battered mother looked to Boromir. "Do not be afraid. He is a friend. If he cannot help, no one will. " 

After this small reassuring she came closer to the bed and stroke the cheek of her burning son lovingly. 

"At first it was only temperature falling and then rising again. That was three days ago, yesterday, he started to have fits of cough. He coughs so hard until he gets nearly blue. Then he calms. But each fit leaves later."

Boromir looked at Mithrandir, whose face grew even more serious. 

"Is there a hope for Kiriel? Will my son get better?" 

"I am afraid we came too late. There is no hope for Kiriel, I fear."

Boromir lowered his eyes, so he could not see the sheer terror of a mother, whose child is dying. But the expected outburst of tears did not come. She turned to him and took him firmly by hand, 

"I sensed this, but I hoped. Please, lord Boromir. I know that our Steward, Lord Denethor disapproves, but please let your brother, Lord Faramir come here and say goodbye."

Boromir flinched. He looked away and took some time to compose to a respectful answer, 

"He will not come. My brother is gravely sick. Since today morning, he lies in fever."

__

*And maybe awaits him a long dying, like Kiriel.* 

* * *

When they emerged from the small house, Boromir asked anxiously, "Is Faramir going to die?"

Mithrandir smoothed his grey beard thoughtfully, "No, if we handle fast. This sickness is rather rare, but not incurable. The first sign of it is the fever. It lowers for a while, then rises again. Each time a little more up. That is dangerous, but not that bad. The second stage are the wracking coughs. When a person reached the second stage, there is no hope anymore. Sooner or later, one dies, suffocates."

Boromir looked down. 

A heavy drop fell on the stone street and created a dark spot, followed by many others. He looked up. A lightning illuminated the top of the Tower of Ecthelion. He gestured for Mithrandir to follow; they passed Beregond at Citadel gate and quickly hurried into the peace and safety of the House. 

Heavy rain was almost deafening, preventing any conversation, so they ran in silence. 

Finally they reached the House. Its silence was after the roaring of raging storm stunning. They were dripping wet, leaving a small trail of water on the floor as they moved. Boromir ran up the stairs to Faramir's chamber. 

He nearly ran into the small boy, who stood on guard. "Has anything happened?"

"No sir, no one came and no one left."

With a wave of the hand Boromir dismissed the boy and entered the room. After him went in the wizard. 

Boromir looked around the room wildly. The white covers of Faramir's bed were tangled on the floor. The door to a narrow balcony was opened wide and the floor around it was wet from rain. Boromir ran to the balcony and looked out. He almost could not see through the grey heavy rain his brother standing there. 

Faramir was shivering on the whole body and crying. Wild wind was shaking his lithe, weakened body dangerously close to the railing . Boromir jumped out and embraced him. 

Faramir pushed him away, leaned over the railing and screamed into the city opening underneath him in breaking, hoarse voice, "Kiriel!"

Boromir drew swaying Faramir closer. Through the wet clothes he felt the heath coming from brother's body. Faramir was running fever again. Boromir pulled him back into the chamber. 

Mithrandir closed the balcony. In the sudden silence was Faramir's breaking feverish voice strangely strong, 

" Kiriel gwanale...Boromir lav nin wanya......lav nin wanya!"

Boromir pulled his agitated brother into an embrace and looked at Mithrandir, asking with his eyes for help. 

"It is in elvish. It means Kiriel is dying, allow me to go..."

Boromir hugged his crying brother and stroked his damp hair, "Poor Faramir. Hush...hush."

He looked over brother's shoulder at the wizard, who pointed at dry clothes he had prepared on the bed. Then Mithrandir left the chamber. 

Boromir seated Faramir on the bed and started to undress brother's damp clothes. As much as he tried to offer some soothing words, Faramir was deaf to them. 

Boromir was relieved when Mithrandir returned with a cup of steaming tea. He gave it to Faramir, who drank obediently. After a few moments the disturbed boy quieted, lied down and fell asleep. 

Mithrandir explained, "It would lower the temperature and force him to rest a little. It will help to defeat the sickness, if given often enough."

They sat in silence for a few moments, each brooding over different things. Suddenly Mithrandir looked on Faramir curiously, "How could he know that Kiriel is dying? Someone must have told him."

Boromir shrugged with shoulders, tired, "No, no one was here. He probably had one of his dreams again."

Mithrandir straightened in his chair, new life sprang to his bright eyes, "He has had prophetic dreams?"

The wizard turned to Faramir again and muttered, "Unexpected, but not impossible."

* * *

It was short before the dinner when Boromir walked to father's office. Denethor had been the whole day on a sitting with the council, which ended only a short while ago. 

Boromir was surprised to find the door to father's working room opened up a little. Soft glow of fire poured out of the chamber together with two voices he recognised immediately. Boromir crept closer to the door to look in. Mithrandir was sitting opposite to Denethor speaking. 

"...I have been thinking that it could be good if I took Faramir to the Elves. They could take care of his injury and the illness."

Stewards lips pressed into a thin line and Boromir knew that the storm was close. Yet father's voice remained cold and even, 

"It is nothing what could not be taken care of here in Minas Tirith."

A shadow floated over the wizard's face as he folded his long arms together, "I wanted to take him to the Elves so he can learn from them."

Denethor's fair face paled and started to shine with inner flame of pure rage, "So he becomes like you? He is son of Gondor! My son! And he will stay here!"

Boromir flinched when Mithrandir spoke up again, his voice mocking. 

__

*Although Mithrandir's courage is admirable, it holds not sign of wisdom.* 

"Son of Gondor? Your son? Which father would not have noticed his son is sick and injured!"

Denethor's voice shivered in madness, "How dare you! You come to my house. Try to take the love of my sons and now you want to take son of Gondor away so he can be like you!"

Into Mithrandir's voice returned old discretion, but Boromir recognised the words were falling on deaf eras. 

"Faramir could be the new-made knot binding together the broken line of the Elves and Men."

Boromir turned away from the door and leaned against a cold pillar behind him. He could not understand the agitated voices pouring out of the room anymore, but he did not need to to know the result. He thought sorrowfully. 

__

*Faramir should go to Elves? Away from Minas Tirith? Nay, that will not happen. You are son of your father, son of Gondor, Faramir. Denethor will not allow it. Your name is a golden chain binding you here. Nay brother mine, you are too much thy father's son.*

~ F I N ~ 


End file.
